


With A Tone Of Finality

by sheerrloockk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Past Torture, Pining, Scars, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 08:06:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1143567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheerrloockk/pseuds/sheerrloockk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More and more frequently, John finds himself in situations where he must choose between Sherlock and Mary. (Set in the nebulous time between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Tone Of Finality

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lovecybelle, winner of the SYWRFF 500 follower give-away. :) Check us out, if you'd like: so-you-wanna-read-fanfiction.tumblr.com.

Mary turns off the telly and yawns.

 

“Well, g'night luv,” she says. “Early day at the clinic tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late, just because you’ve got the day off.”

 

“Yes, dear,” says John, pinching her on the bum. She swats at his hand, gives him a quick kiss, and then shuffles off to bed. John briefly considers turning the telly back on and watching something atrocious, like what he and Mrs. Hudson used to watch, but before he decides for sure, he looks at his phone. His stomach twists. Two texts from Sherlock that he’d missed.

 

_Are you free this evening? Could  
use your assistance. Case. SH_

 

The time stamp says he received the text nearly five hours previously, when he and Mary had been vaguely discussing what to do for dinner. The second came two hours after the first, just as he and Mary had sat down in front of the telly after eating.

 

_Abuse case gone awry, killer on the loose._  
 _If you could identify cause of death I’d_  
 _know if I’m dealing with someone clever_  
 _or common. SH_

The second one came with a picture attached. John looks at it; it's a blurry picture of the body in question. John can't tell anything from it, which is good, since it's illegal for Sherlock to send him crime scene photos. He texts back, with a slight nudge of guilt in his stomach. He knows he should've been there with Sherlock tonight.

 

_I’d need to see the body, is that still an option?_  
 _From what I can tell it’s either head trauma,_  
 _strangulation, or the stab wound. Depends on_  
 _which one happened first._

John fiddles with his phone, hoping that Sherlock still wants his help. He hasn’t seen Sherlock in a while – over a week. It’s difficult to reconcile his new life with Mary and his old life. More and more frequently, he finds himself in situations where he must choose between Sherlock and Mary. It’s uncomfortable.

 

He goes back through his texts from Sherlock over the past month. He’s giving himself a guilt trip on purpose and he knows it, but he can’t stop. Texts and texts from Sherlock, about cases, about John’s wellbeing, about Mrs. Hudson, all interspersed with an occasional “ _Bored!_ ” John’s responses are short, either rejections due to obligations, or simply lacking in substance. His stomach twists.

 

John jumps as his phone vibrates with a new text. He opens it, eager.

 

_Annoyed Lestrade’s new forensics tech into telling_  
 _me. May have found a way to work with him. Could_  
 _use your assistance at 221b if not occupied. SH_

John’s reply is immediate.

 

_Of course. What with?_

_Injury. SH_

 

John’s heart is in this throat and before he’s made any conscious decision, he’s outside in the cold without his jacket and headed down the street towards the nearby Tube station.

 

He taps his foot as the train moves along. It’s late and the only other occupants are a pair of drunk, snogging Uni students. John looks away from them. He opens his phone again and looked at the word.  _Injury_. His hands are steady but his heart is racing.

 

 _‘Calm down,’_  he thinks.  _‘Sherlock’s well enough to text perfectly coherently. If it were a real emergency, he’d have gone to A &E.’_ He mostly manages to convince himself that this is true, but he still takes the steps up from the Tube station to Baker Street two at a time.

 

He still has his key, so he lets himself in and bolts up the stairs to flat B.

 

“Sherlock?” he calls as soon as the door is open. “Sherlock? You alright?”

 

“In here,” Sherlock calls from the toilet. To others, Sherlock would probably sound perfectly normal. But John can hear the tightness in his voice that indicates one thing – pain. John enters the bathroom and sees Sherlock sitting on the edge of the tub with a towel around his shoulders. There’s a first aid kit open on the sink.

 

“What happened?” asks John.

 

“Cause of death was the head trauma while he was strangling the victim,” says Sherlock. “In short: the culprit was, in fact, clever. We gave chase and instead of running, he stood and fought. Took out Lestrade – he’s at A&E with a broken something-or-other. He’ll be fine. Donovan was with Lestrade and the murderer took out a knife. I distracted the murderer so Donovan could bring him down.”

 

“You didn’t get  _stabbed,_  did you? Because you would definitely need A&E if you did.”

 

“No, slashed, several times,” says Sherlock, wincing. “Defensive wounds. The worst of it is on my back, though, and I can’t exactly reach that. Hence: you. I cleaned the cuts on my arms already.”

 

John takes a moment to take in the scene before him. There’s a pile of bloody cotton swabs in the small bin between the sink and the toilet. Sherlock’s still wearing his shirt – the black one, John notes – but his sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of blood against Sherlock’s temple and John has no idea if it is Sherlock’s blood or someone else’s.

 

“Mine,” says Sherlock, answering the question before John can ask it. Sherlock reaches over to grab a tissue to wipe it away, and John sees the cuts on his friend’s arm. John steps forward and take the tissue from him. John taps the towel.

 

“Off,” he says. “The shirt as well.” Sherlock hesitates before gingerly pulling the towel off his shoulders. Sherlock takes his time unbuttoning his shirt; once it’s open, he lets it hang before speaking.

 

“I can’t…” he begins, and John moves in, gently pulling Sherlock’s arms out of the sleeves. He tries to ease the shirt off Sherlock’s back, but it pulls against dried blood. He hears Sherlock let out a short breath and he realizes that the cut has reopened as he pulled the beginnings of a scab off with the shirt.

 

“Sorry,” says John. Sherlock shakes his head but does not respond. “Shirt’s a write-off,” he adds. Sherlock knows this already, but John needs to fill the silence with something. “Alright, you turn around so I can clean it.” He turns himself and looks at the first aid kit. John hears Sherlock shuffle around behind him, rearranging himself on the tub, as John puts down to tissue, picks up a generic antiseptic, and a few more cotton swabs. He turns to look at Sherlock’s back and freezes.

 

There is a long cut across Sherlock’s shoulders, a diagonal mark from high on his left shoulder to mid-blade on the right. It’s scarlet, vivid, and oozing blood just a bit, but that is not what stops John short. The cut he expected. What he didn’t expect to see were the scars.

 

They weren’t very old – some less than a year. Others appeared to be older. But none of them looked as old as the five-year-old scar on John’s own left shoulder. John felt his stomach go cold as he put together the timeline. He didn’t move but John was certain that Sherlock knew what John was thinking anyway. Slowly, John opens the lid to the antiseptic. The pungent smell of chemicals hits his nose and he tips the bottle into the cotton ball quickly.

 

He dabs lightly at the open wound on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock tenses but makes no sound of discomfort. Slowly, methodically, John cleans Sherlock’s wound.

 

John wants to ask. He needs to know. But he has no idea how to begin. He remembers how Sherlock revealed himself, how he gave John the time he needed to forgive him, what he said in that Tube carriage before he covered it up with laughter. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he finds his finger tracing a particularly long scar that runs parallel to the new cut on Sherlock’s back.

 

“Don’t,” Sherlock says, and John’s hand freezes. “Leave it. Just… finish up and that’s all.”

 

“Sherlock,” John says, but Sherlock jerks his head back and forth and John realizes he’s shaking his head  _no_. His shoulders are tense, his arms are trembling. He’s putting pressure on the newly cleaned cut. “Sherlock,” John says again, but this time he’s Dr. Watson rather than John. “Calm down. Relax.”

 

Slowly, surprisingly, Sherlock does. John hears his breathing even out. He looks again at Sherlock’s back, trying to focus solely on the newest laceration.

 

“I don’t think it needs stitches,” says John. Sherlock nods and makes to put his sliced-up shirt back on. John’s hand closes around his wrist and stops him from moving. “We’re not done,” he says, indicating the splash of blood on Sherlock’s face. It doesn’t really make logical sense, but Sherlock stops anyway. He turns and faces John, closing his eyes as John wets the tissue.

 

John holds Sherlock’s chin, angling his head just so, and wipes at Sherlock’s temple. He can feel his heartbeat racing. The small splatter of red near Sherlock’s hairline brings back memories of his friend’s head smashed against pavement. But no, that hadn’t truly happened, because Sherlock is right here in front of him. Sherlock is here, carrying the evidence of his dedication on his back.

 

“Please tell me,” says John quietly. He watches Sherlock’s eyes squeeze together, though they were already closed.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” says Sherlock. “I did what I had to do.”

 

“It matters,” says John. He runs a thumb against Sherlock’s temple and beneath his hands, his friend shudders.

 

“This argument will get us no where,” says Sherlock, his eyes still held steadfastly shut. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over. There’s no need to rehash it.”

 

John recognizes these signs. He had similar ones himself, though his own problem was never quite PTSD. But Sherlock’s case looks textbook – avoiding what reminds him of the event. John worries what else Sherlock might be hiding from him. Nightmares? Depression? Relapse?

 

“I need you to tell me what happened, Sherlock,” says John firmly. “I need to understand what you went through. Tell me. Please. For me.”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and John vividly remembers it: the tremble in Sherlock’s voice, smell of rain in the air, the fear nearly paralyzing him.

 

_“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”_

_“Alright, alright.”_

_“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”_

 

John crashes back to reality with Sherlock staring up at him. Sherlock is here with him now, and John waits. He knows that Sherlock will tell him. Sherlock may keep secrets, but when John asks, he tells. John only needs to learn what to ask.

 

“While I was… traveling, dismantling Moriarty’s organization, I got into a few tight corners,” he says, blinking rapidly. “In some cases, there was a measure of physical violence. It doesn’t matter, though, as I succeeded and they failed.”

 

“What kind of violence?” asks John. He won’t stop until he hears the dark word he knows lies underneath Sherlock’s light tone.

 

“All sorts,” says Sherlock, looking away. “I’ve never known you to be so curious about unnecessary violence before. I wonder what else has changed in my absence.”

 

“They tortured you,” says John, and as the word slips between his lips, he becomes immeasurably furious. He hears Sherlock gasp and he realizes that his hands have wound themselves into Sherlock’s hair and tightened their grip without his knowledge. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, immediately loosening his grip. But Sherlock ignores him and leans forward, pressing his forehead against John’s stomach. John can see the scars on his back again, and he cannot stop himself from reaching out to touch them.

 

Sherlock twitches beneath his touch, but John touches each scar with reverence. What he sees refutes the fears he’d indulged before he’d allowed Sherlock back into his life – that those two years had been Sherlock shaking him off, working without John to slow him down. Each one of these marks on Sherlock’s skin tells one story, yells it at John with no other explanation possible.

 

“You did that, you faked it and left, just so you could come back here,” says John. “You weren’t… off on your own little adventure without me. You… You  _suffered_  so you could come back. Back to Baker Street and to London.”

 

“To you,” says Sherlock, surprising John a bit. His voice is rough, lower than usual, and his hands are clenched in John’s cardigan. “So I could come back and be with you again. Everything, everything I did, everyone I took out and had arrested or killed, was so I could come back here, so we could continue on as we had.”

 

John feels it in his heart, the words Sherlock hasn’t said but clearly means, and he doesn’t know what to do. He thinks of Mary; good, normal, ordinary Mary, who saved John from himself while Sherlock was gone. He thinks of what the future holds – his wedding, his honeymoon, his whole life, now diverging from Sherlock, from their extraordinary adventures.

 

Sherlock hasn’t moved. His arms are trembling and his back is tense again. John cannot stop himself – he runs his hands gently down Sherlock’s neck and across his shoulders. The tension melts beneath his hands, and he feels Sherlock release his cardigan and wrap his arms around John’s middle.

 

He has no idea what Sherlock is thinking, or if he’s thinking at all, because the only other time he’s seen Sherlock display this kind of emotion was when he was standing on a hospital rooftop.

 

John moves completely on instinct. His mind has lost control and given it to his body. His hands find themselves back at Sherlock’s neck, turning his face upward towards John’s, and he’s leaning over. He sees Sherlock’s eyes, locked with his, terrified. His lips find Sherlock’s and there’s something of a weight lifted from his shoulders.

 

In an instant, Sherlock is on his feet and kissing John. He kisses John as though his mouth was oxygen and breathing wasn’t boring. He claws at John’s clothes, trying to pull him closer, closer, as close as they can be in two separate bodies. John lets him, John kisses him in return, and his hands run up Sherlock’s back. He can feel the scars under his hands, the scars Sherlock suffered in his name, and he kisses Sherlock harder.

 

Sherlock breaks away and kisses along John’s jaw, his tongue licking at the junction between his jaw and his neck, laving open-mouthed kisses along his neck, biting at his earlobe. John holds onto Sherlock for dear life. The skin under John’s hands is burning hot and Sherlock holds nothing back, pressing his whole body against John, allowing John to feel just how much Sherlock wants this.

 

Nosing back towards John’s lips, Sherlock kisses him again, but now it feels less desperate. He has one hand at John’s jaw and the other twisted around his waist. Sherlock’s mouth is soft against John’s, tender and sweet. John feels the unsaid words as Sherlock swipes his tongue against John’s lower lip.

 

Sherlock breaks away and moves past John out of the toilet.

 

John shakes where he stands, and finally, when he realizes that his knees are actually wobbling, he sits in Sherlock’s spot on the edge of the tub. He has no idea how much time passes – it could be anywhere from five minutes to half an hour – but Sherlock returns, impeccably dressed, as always.

 

He holds a hand out for John and John takes it. Sherlock helps him rise to his feet. John moves in; he wants to kiss Sherlock like that again, and again, and again. But a hand to his chest keeps John from reaching Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“No,” Sherlock says, his voice soft.

 

John starts, the rejection bitter in his veins. And then he remembers Mary.  _Mary_. He hasn’t thought of her. He’s kissed Sherlock and he’s  _engaged_. His eyes widen with horror at himself and Sherlock smiles sadly.

 

“Don’t worry, John,” he says.  “I’ve already had this conversation with Mary.”

 

“You… What?” John says, confused.

 

“Weeks ago. Long before you were speaking to me again. She understands that our situation is a rather complicated one, between the three of us,” he says. “She knew I might… slip.”

 

“Wait, Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

 

“If I understand correctly, you are engaged to Mary,” says Sherlock. “If I understand correctly, you’ve chosen the wedding date. Those decisions have already been made. Mary asked for my opinion on a few details, though. She and I were going to have lunch this weekend to discuss it. I’m sure you could come if you wanted. It is your wedding, after all.”

 

“Sherlock,” says John, but Sherlock cuts him off.

 

“It won’t do any good, John,” says Sherlock. “Don’t think on it.”

 

“But –”

 

“No,” says Sherlock. “No. I did what I had to do to get back here, to London, to Baker Street, and to you. Now I am back and I have you again. That was all I wanted and I have got what I want. The only thing left is to move forward.” He pauses. “I like Mary,” he adds. “She’s without a doubt the best of the women you’ve dated. Very clever.”

 

Sherlock steps back, away from John and walks into the kitchen. John stays in the bathroom, listening to the obvious noises of Sherlock making tea. Slowly, John follows him, and there’s a cup of tea waiting for him on the table. He picks it up and takes a sip. Sherlock’s made it perfectly, milk, no sugar.

 

Sherlock’s sitting in his chair, upright, sipping his own tea. He says nothing as John sits down across from him. They sit in silence, Sherlock drinking his tea and John incapable of moving. Sherlock sets down his empty cup.  John copies him, though the cup is still nearly full of tea. Sherlock leans forward and takes John’s cup from the side table. He takes a sip, makes a face, and then inexplicably continues to drink it. He finishes John’s cup as well, setting it down beside the first cup.

 

He stands and straightens his suit, wincing as he jostles his injuries. John is on his feet before he realizes it, laying a hand on Sherlock’s arm.

 

“Be careful,” he says. “You’ll reopen them.” Sherlock doesn’t reply; he simply pulls his arm out of John’s grip and takes a step back. It shouldn’t sting, but it does.

 

“If you’d like to stay the night, your old room is still habitable,” Sherlock says after a moment. “It’s rather a long trip and the Tube’s closed.”

 

John doesn’t know what to say. There must be some way to communicate to Sherlock that it hadn’t meant nothing, that there  _is_ something there, that he wants so badly to explore it, but now it’s too late. He has given Mary a ring and a promise and he loves her, and he doesn’t know what to do. So he nods and takes his own step back. It hurts more than he thought it would. After another second, he turns around and walks straight toward the stairs, desperate to get away, to stop staring this potential in the face, knowing he must reject it.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, and John turns automatically. He responds to Sherlock’s voice as though it controls him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You’d’ve come to this conclusion anyway,” he says. “No matter how it played out, this is how it has to be. I’ve… I’ve run scenarios in my Mind Palace. This is always how it ends.”

 

John wants to contradict him, but he can’t. Sherlock is always right. There’s nothing John can say now that will change anything, because just as Sherlock said, the decision has already been made. There is no going back, only forward. So John turns back around and walks up the stairs to the room that used to be his and shuts the door behind him.


End file.
